


Prayers

by Jberry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hospital, Hurt and comfort, Illness, M/M, Three garidebs, fear of dying, free form, poetic verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5293133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/pseuds/Jberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has never been a man who prayed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hogwartswitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hogwartswitch/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Six](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273303) by [jamlockk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk). 



> If you could, please visit cleverwholigan (Hogwartswitch)'s gofundme and read up on what is going on : http://cleverwholigan.tumblr.com/post/134011278440/go-fund-me-for-cleverwholigan 
> 
> I just wanted to write a little fic that has hope even in the midst of trials. With johnlock. <3

I remember holding Redbeard and screaming. Beating my head against the wall until Mummy had to physically drag me out of the antiseptic-dripping room. 

I knew if I stayed he'd live. If I were there. If I could try. If I worked at him. 

Mummy could pull me. She's stronger than she looks. 

-

I pull a gun out of my waist band with the smell of chlorine and I'm not sure of which I'm more terrified. That I would rather die than live without this army doctor at my side, or that I was praying in my mind over and over, and echo of our first discussion of death _please God let him live._

-

I would rather be shot through than watch Magnussen lay a hand on him. John is a soldier that could break this little slimy shark into pieces but he stands still. John's prayer, though it's my imagination playing tricks on me, is my name. Impatient. And undertone of asking for help. Of what do we do now. 

The cement is cold on my knees and the lasers will not miss the bullet mark. John breathes behind me. 

-

I have prayed and admitted this is the end of where my logic falls short. Chemistry cannot explain my reaction to John bleeding on the sidewalk. I'd decided to finally be brave, to let silent prayers open up my voice, when a case interjected. 

Barely a four. Over by dusk. 

Ambushed. Surprised. He will not cross the other side of the street alive. 

I am stopped. A tug on my pant leg. 

It's just a scratch. He tells me. It looks like a lot of blood but it's only a scratch. 

I pray he is right. I wrap the thigh wound with a piece of my shirt. I pray. I wait. I pull him onto my lap so he can feel my heat rather than cold cement. The blood pools on the sidewalk and I ache for the pain I put him through. He's talking, I'm counting the vertebra, the tendons, the finger bones I will snap in the man who is now knocked cold by the corner. 

John looks up. He's billowed in, wrapped in my coat, the autumn wind just cool enough to capture leaves. I hear them crunching as I count his breaths. This is a day where my heart stood still, such a mundane day. A regular, ordinary day. Ending in pain and heartache and prayers with fingers wrapped in cooling blood. 

Let him live. 

No one can pull me away from him. I could tear down the buildings, walls, rip Magnussen to ribbons with my bare hands. Today was to be the day I said what I'd meant to say while assassins watched in blood red coats. While sniper rifles pegged our backs. While breathless on London rooftops. 

I pray.

-

The knife was dirty and sepsis or blood infection or something John would know about. He would know. But he's in and out and they've tried infusions and antibiotics. I'm drowning. I'm smoking and not eating and I want him to be so angry with me he wakes up properly and yells. I donate blood to him to strengthen him. We are a perfect match. 

-

I beg him not to leave me. I am beyond caring what I look like or sound like. I am a grieving widower. I'm screaming and holding onto the bed. I cannot lose him. They will not take him from me. I tell him he cannot die. 

-

My head hurts. I pick it up, slowly, it's pounding. At first I thought I was in the jail cell after John's horrible stag night. I'm in a hospital room. Face down on the edge of a bed, leaning forward from my chair perch. Someone is stroking my hair. 

I look up and John is looking down at me. He has a small smile and he whispers, his voice cracking from lack of use

"I heard you."


End file.
